it’s the closest thing

to bloodletting

or self-harming,

there’s little choice

in the matter and

occurs at any time

day or night,

you might call it

word incontinence,

they expel themselves

with very little notice,

leaving me drained,

wrung out, bone-dry,

desiccated and parched,

bizarrely it’s painless

albeit there’s always an

emotional toll to pay,

people think writers

are masters of words,

not so, the opposite is

true, as words prod, arouse,

question, suggest, tempt

but most heinously they

sacrifice themselves

to my page, leaving me

to witness their final end,

their lyrical demise

a death from my hand

laid out in stone cold,

printed perpetuity,

I plead guilty

© Graham R Sherwood 05/25